


Rack and Ruin

by Stormweaver



Series: Pain is a poison I digest [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/pseuds/Stormweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post HLV - Moriarty has been dealt with and Sherlock is under house arrest at Baker Street when Molly Hooper discovers that someone may have come up with a way to kill several of England's high profile personalities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are the property of the ACD Estate, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. 
> 
> It's not necessary but it would help if you read the other stories in this series first.

_Everything is ashes; our hopes, our aspirations, the most carefully laid plans and our lives. So fragile, so easily destroyed as if everything we ever wanted or planned for was less than nothing. Such conceit, such contempt – they died so easily and for what? Masculine pride, vanity and because they were unwilling to lose, I have lost everything._  
  
 _It's become the benchmark of my life – lost love, lost hope, and lost freedom – no more. Never again the pretty pliant plaything, malleable, biddable, that ended with a gun shot. My suffering has not been in vain, the things I know, the things I've seen will set me free. All of us are born in blood; I am reborn in blood and fire and before I die, I will leave rack and ruin to those that deserve it most._  
  
 _The course of my life has been set since I was a young girl, since that warm April afternoon when he slid his arm around my shoulders and branded his kiss to my temple. Never had I felt that warm, that loved and I clung to it as if he was the sun, the moon, and the heavens all combined. There was this intensity in him even then and I knew that I would do anything for him._  
  
 _You'd think him mad, perhaps at the end he was but he was my sunny boy. Strong arms, quick laugh and quicker wits, never once with him did I feel stupid or plain or boring even when the rest of my world screamed those things at me. My mother, harpy that she was, would spew abuse and threats as vile as they came but none of it mattered to me. I was marking time, counting the days and as soon as the law said I could leave, I ran and I never looked back at the pile of shite that was my past. From the moment he placed his arm around me to that last moment when he took his own life, he made me special and I will never forget that._  
  
 _Don't you dare feel pity for me. Life was very good; there's shite in everyone's life from time to time but that can be endured. My life will be brilliant again, depend on it._

 

oOoOoOoO

 

Viscount Stafford de Redcliffe, Frederick ‘Freddie’ Stratford Canning, gazed at his current mistress and grinned like a giddy schoolboy.   Seated in the back corner of the Quail and Hound Inn’s highly touted restaurant, they were hidden far from the windows and the prying eyes of passersby.

There was no doubt that had they been visible to the general public, they would have attracted significant attention. Physically, he wasn’t much to look at; he was of middling height, his hair – what little remained - was a non-descript brown and his appreciation of fine food and drink had led to a slight paunch which completely ruined the line of his bespoke suits.   Not that it mattered; he had the money to have new suits made to flatter his growing stomach. His personal stature had risen with his father’s passing the previous year. He’d gone from being little more than a thirty-four year old divorce, saddled with a brand new wife his father had chosen with him working a middle management job in the family’s property holdings to being the Viscount and responsible his family’s holding.   There was a lot of it to maintain; his family had extensive property holdings, a very successful horse breeding program and investments that he was still trying to sort out.

Going out discreetly was becoming more of a challenge considering who his mistress was; her star was on the rise and she was increasingly of Tabloid interest. An up-and-coming fashion model, she had a bright smile, glorious auburn hair and legs that went on for miles which made her the darling of several fashion houses. That was more than he could say for the wife that his father had saddled him with, something he would never have agreed to had he realized how soon his father would leave this world. His wife was a nice enough woman, if your tastes ran to loyal and faithful but devoid of any beauty or social aspiration. She was frighteningly dull, and to date, barren like the first.  

To make matters worse, his wife was an incredibly devote Catholic – her sole advantage was an inheritance that was only a few million quid less than his own. In this instance, her faith had proven a bit of a blessing – she’d left England for Portugal, hoping that a trip to some shrine would magically cure their fertility woes.   Her departure equated to unlimited freedom; he finally had time to do all his favourite things and he chuckled to himself.   He loved this restaurant, it wasn’t sufficiently fashionable enough for his wife’s tastes but they served an _ossobuco_ that was to die for, succulent veal shank in a savory wine and tomato sauce served with a _polenta gremolata_ that made him salivate. He reached for the fine linen napkins the restaurant favoured, wiping at his mouth, it was ridiculous how much his mouth was watering despite having consumed half his portion of veal.   He took another sip of the restaurant’s extraordinary tea, leaned back in his seat and listened to his mistress prattle on about dress sizes and how they’d let just about anyone walk a runway in Milan.

Midsentence, she stopped and stared at him, her eyes wide with shock. “Freddie,” she said tartly, “wipe your face, you look ghastly!”   His heart racing, he picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth and was startled to see that the napkin was completely sodden.   As he stared at it, his hands began to tremble and then shake violently before his entire body began to spasm and he fell to the floor.   His mouth opened and closed as he struggled on the floor, vaguely hearing his mistress scream for help as a vicious seizure slammed through his body and his vision faded.

As last meals went, his was divine.

oOoOoOo

 

An ex-lover had once remarked that Johanna’s capacity for gossip was second only to her capacity for shopping.   If power shopping ever became a sport, Lady Johanna Hungerford-Powderham de Courtenay was a contender for a gold medal.

Striding through the confines of Harrod’s, Johanna and her three closest friends did their level best to bolster the economy of London. Each scuttled towards the next shop after loading Johanna’s poor driver with a variety of shopping bags, determined to find the perfect purchase before the end of the afternoon.   She’d already purchased several outfits for her upcoming trip to Florence to see her current beau; all she needed to do now was acquire a few pairs of shoes as well and she simply adored Jimmy Choo’s.

As her friends moved from shop to shop, she pled exhaustion and took a moment to stop at her favourite beverage boutique.   Ordering a large chai latte, she studied her reflection in the large mirror-like plate glass windows as she wished once again for two extra inches of height.   Keeping up with her leggy friends was a challenge, she felt practically elfin in comparison given she barely hit a scant 153 centimeters and no amount of heel could augment that when your friends were wearing them as well. If she lacked height, she had something that each of her friends coveted, a perfect porcelain English rose complexion and a shade of white blonde hair that never needed excessive maintenance to achieve.  

Though she had a reputation for overindulging, she actually espoused an epicurean philosophy taught to her by her Nan, the Dowager Countess Hungerford – moderation in all things.  Well, everything other than shopping. She was convinced that shopping was a divine right. Glancing at the calorie laden latte in her hand, she sighed, drank down half and tossed the remainder into a rubbish bin before striding out of the store towards where her friends were waiting.   She took approximately ten steps before a spasm sent her sprawling to the floor, her feet beating a tattoo on the polished tile.

 

oOoOoOo

 

Andrew Warren was a study of misery and by all appearances it was his mission in life to spread that misery as far and wide as possible.   His personal assistant (the third this year) was currently brewing him a kettle of tea while he sat hunched in his office and sorted through demo tapes.   A hopeless workaholic, over the years he’d found, groomed and created a succession of pop groups.   He managed every facet of their careers for as long as he could and over the years had amassed a considerable fortune. The money seemed to bring him no joy; it was merely a way of keeping score.

None of that fortune or his multitude of business contacts could effectively deal with his current crisis, a particularly violent stomach bug that had been plaguing him for the last few days.   Being ill upset him, he was rarely ever ill – he simply had no time for it.   Like every single one of the groups that he worked with, he made certain to maintain his physique.   A minimum of one hour a day in his personal gym had helped him keep his body trim if not slender, and he felt that he looked like a man in his thirties rather than a man newly in his forties.   The tabloids speculated that his never ending rotation of young pretty girlfriends kept him young. They never lasted long, as bright green eyes hid a vicious temper and an attitude towards women that was hardly gentile.

Scattering the demo tapes, he hunched forward, his face cupped in his hands as he prayed to whoever was listening for the pain of his massive headache to ease. Worse, he was certain that he could hear the overly sweet tones of the current Queen of Britpop singing throughout the house even though his assistant, his cook and his housekeeper had assured him that there was no music playing.

His assistant entered the room bearing a massive mug of tea and then quickly fled the room. He drank down the contents, grimacing at the overly sweet tea as tremors swept through his body. Leaning back in his chair, he grit his teeth as another tremor swept through him and silently cursed whoever had given him this influenza.   Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes as a violent spasm swept through him and as he flailed, he swept countless demo tapes to the floor followed swiftly by his body.

 

oOoOoOo

 

Molly studied the three bodies that had been wheeled into the pathology lab at some point over the last four hours. Each of the individuals set out before her was notable in some manner, they had no obvious links between them and yet Molly was certain that their deaths were related.  

The chances of having three high profile individuals in the morgue at once was slim; that they all experienced similar symptoms which at the outside mimicked heart failure simply raised the ‘odd’ flag higher.   She hadn’t been surprised when Mike Stamford had called her in to take a look at the bodies; she’d been scheduled to be off but she really didn’t mind.   This was important.   Each of her patients was incredibly wealthy, notorious in some manner and each had complained of chest pains and had suffered convulsions.  

Ordinarily at this point, she’d pick up her mobile and contact Sherlock but that wasn’t an option at the moment.   London’s consulting detective was currently under house arrest while the British Government decided if the removal of James Moriarty equated to debt paid or not.   She was as certain that they would need him to solve this, as certain as she was that the evidence would show that these three individuals had not died of heart failure.  

Squaring her shoulders, she searched out one name amongst her contacts and waited as her mobile dialled. When he answered the phone, she said simply, “Greg, you’re going to want to contact Mycroft and collect Sherlock – I have three high profiles here and all appear to have died from similar symptoms and you know what Sherlock says about coincidences.”

Greg Lestrade sighed heavily before responding, “The Universe is rarely so lazy, yeah?”   There was a pause, “You’re sure? What am I saying? Of course you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade collects Sherlock and they look into Molly's case...

Sprawled out on the sofa in 221B, Sherlock Holmes is certain that he’s slowly going out of mind with boredom. Two marvellous weeks of freedom following Moriarty’s return had ended when the British Government decreed that house arrest was in order until they found a more permanent solution.

He snorts in derision. ‘ _Permanent solution_ _but not as permanent as certain death in Eastern Europe.'_ It’s a quandary that Mycroft’s fellows in the government are currently pondering.  He understands the rationale behind the house arrest; he just isn’t fond of being on the receiving end of it, given the terms.  Isolation, complete and total, from his normal support mechanism with only Mycroft and Sherrinford allowed to visit and only occasionally.   Total media ban, no clients, no experiments.  Dante himself couldn’t have imagined a better punishment for Sherlock and that man had given retribution serious consideration.   His mind palace offered no respite.   He’d tidied and organized it within an inch of its life in the first day of this enforced solitude.    He needs a puzzle to occupy him. What he really needs is to get out of 221B but the prospect of either is exceedingly unlikely.

Focused as he is on his thoughts; he fails to hear the sound of a car door slamming or the sound of feet pounding up the stairs. It’s the impact of a body hitting the closed door of his flat that draws his attention back to 221B as the force of the impact rattles the mirror on the wall. After a moment, the door opens and Lestrade strides into the room followed by a very annoyed looking Anthea.

Sherlock sits up abruptly, his limbs flailing around as he rights himself. “What’s happened?”   He ruthlessly fights down the urge to smile; to do so at this point would be more than a little ‘not good’. He is certain that his keepers are watching him carefully, waiting for some behaviour they can deem aberrant.   He expects that the volume of cameras in 221B is at an all-time high and that his removal from England is imminent.   It’s far from what he wants; he has yet to see his god-daughter’s face, he’s readjusting to the presence of his sister in his life and then there is the little matter of his ever-changing relationship with certain ‘friends’.

One of those friends stands before him and he watches as Lestrade sticks his hands in his coat pockets and attempts to look casual. “We’ve got three high profile bodies, not one over 40.   Each was reported as a heart attack but Mike Stamford thought that was suspicious so he called Molly in. Molly agreed, she called me and told me to come get you.”

Sherlock’s eyes lose their focus for a moment before returning to stare at Lestrade, “I presume Anthea is my ‘get out of jail’ card for the afternoon.”

Dimples flash as she smiles at him. “Limited time only, I’m afraid.”

One eyebrow arches slightly as he reaches over and pulls his Belstaff on. “No sense in wasting it then,” he croons as he gestures for them to lead the way, “Shall we? Before they change their minds?”

 

oOoOoOo

 

There’s a curious quiet in St. Bart’s, Sherlock notes it as he walks down the corridors that lead to the morgue with Lestrade.   To his surprise, Anthea had abandoned them at the doors to the hospital.   Mycroft has a very important meeting with someone in his quest to keep Sherlock in Britain and he’s requested that she join him at the Diogenes Club.  

Sherlock is certain that Anthea’s departure says far more about level the trust that Mycroft has in Lestrade than it does about any illusions that he might have about his baby brother.   Given his actions over the course of the last year, Sherlock can’t blame Mycroft for a certain level of cynicism even though he feels completely justified in the actions he’d taken.   He certainly hasn’t wasted time on regrets; the past is immutable and wallowing in it will achieve nothing.   If he could mitigate the damage caused by his past actions, thus proving himself to be far more valuable in the kingdom than out of it, what more could he really hope for? Lestrade glances over at him, a questioning glance that has Sherlock wondering for a moment if he’s spoken aloud.   Sherlock shrugs slightly, gesturing for the Detective Inspector to lead the way.

Before his fall, there had been a certain routine to his interactions, whether they were with Scotland Yard or at the morgue.   Since his return things have changed, become fair less rigid, less controlled.   For all that he could find a certain level of comfort in those habits, they were also limiting and had become increasingly boring. ‘ _No,_ ’ he thought to himself, _‘it might be a bit unnerving but this new openness that’s developing might prove to be far rewarding.’_

The pathology lab was surprising empty of extraneous staff, something not necessarily uncommon but definitely not expected given the three high profile bodies within it.   Those bodies lay covered at the far end of the morgue, their stories hidden by a thin white sheet – yet another deviation from the norm presenting itself.   Before Sherlock would have expected a certain amount of small talk, beverages to be offered or refused and always Molly Hooper’s seemingly boundless good cheer and questionable fashion choices.  The ritual has changed as they’ve each changed.   She smiles at them, but that smile is quickly replaced by a frown that furrows her brow.   “Don’t usually have three of them at once,” she comments, her gaze sweeping over the bodies, “Not sure who to start with.”

A hint of a smile curves Sherlock’s lips for a moment, as he inclines his head subtly. “We start as we always do, with our little rituals.” A quick wink, a knowing smile. “Who was the original pathologist?”

She knows the answer but Molly consults the chart anyway. “Wagner for One and Three, Markham for Two.”   Flipping through the charts for a moment; she steps around to the body furthest on the left before saying, “I haven’t started on them yet, I figured you’d want to see things as I do. Victim One is Lady Johanna Hungerfo-“

“Are we calling them victims already?” Lestrade asks, peering down at the young woman’s body on the gurney.

“Yes,” Molly and Sherlock say in unison. She smiles briefly at him as he chuckles, before levelling his gaze on Lestrade.   “Heart attacks generally aren’t preceded by seizures, three in one day? No, this is murder,” Sherlock states. “What we need to find out is the how and the why.”

Molly taps the charts with the end of a pen. “I have my theory on the how, but I’ll leave the why to you. I’ve ordered a full spectrum of tests but…” She shrugs, sets the pen and chart down and draws back the sheet on the first victim.

Sherlock nods, indicating the female body. “So we start with the Sun’s darling little drama queen.”

Blinking, Molly asks, “You knew her?”

With a firm shake of his head, Sherlock crouches to study the neck and shoulders of the corpse. “Hardly. I know as much about her as I know any other spoiled heiress in London. I keep track of certain peers and their families – never know when they might show up on my doorstep for some issue they need dealing with.” He snorts softly, his eyes scanning the body for irregularities. “I had estimated that I was likely to see someone from her family within the year – for the usual - blackmail, most likely being asked to retrieve something of embarrassment to the family.”

“You get a lot of those?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock smirks. “Enough to keep me in Belstaff coats for some time, Detective Inspector.”

“Right,” Molly says, turning their focus back to the body. “Victim One was out with friends, shopping at Harrod’s and the other high end boutiques.   Her friends told the paramedics that she’d been complaining of a flutter in her chest for a while, that her heart was racing.   She went to a little shop, bought herself a cuppa and was about to join them at a shoe store when she collapsed.   She went into convulsions and the paramedics pronounced on the way to the hospital.”

Leaning over the body, Sherlock sniffs delicately around her face then sighs as he straightens. “No discernible odour but that’s to be expected given the volume of scent she’s wearing.   Apparently the concept of subtlety was completely foreign to her.”   He pauses, shifts his gaze to Lestrade. “I’ll need the names of those friends, not that I expect them to reveal much. Never can be certain though; one of them might actually have a brain in their head. Victim Two?”

Drawing back the sheet on the second body, Molly says, “Freddie Stratford Canning.   He was having lunch with his mistress,” she flips the page, “during the meal, he showed signs of a tremor, excessive saliva – I’m going to run tests on the napkins that we retrieved from the scene.   He complained before lunch of chest pain and a flutter.   He collapsed during the meal, convulsions again.”

Sherlock turns and looks at the first victim’s body. “Any sign of injection sites.”

Molly shakes her head slightly, her tight ponytail bobbing. “None noted but they hadn’t gotten far when Mike stopped things.   I’ll look. You’re thinking they were drugged?”

“It’s a possibility,” he replies, bending to study the arms on the late, unlamented viscount. “Tell me about Victim Three.”

“This one is a little harder – what we have is from his assistant and from all accounts, he went through those like tissues. Hallucinations, common symptoms with the influenza – stomach pain, nausea, diarrhea.   He also showed signs of arrhythmia and had convulsions.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmurs as he studies what was revealed of the third body. “Each of them famous or at least notable.   Victim one and three are tabloid fodder, two had recently been accused of being less than gentlemanly with several clients and had reputedly been rather ‘hands on’ with one of the rag’s gossip hounds.”

“You’ve got a certain notoriety yourself, lad,” Lestrade comments. “Should you be worried?”

Sherlock turns, staring at Lestrade for a long moment.   ‘ _Could it be that simple? Killing the notorious?_ ’ His gaze sweeps over the three bodies, looking for one point of commonality and then he mentally shakes himself. “One point of commonality,” he murmurs and when Lestrade looked at him expectantly, says, “They’re not just notorious, they’re infamous and they’re each terribly wealthy.”

Nodding, Lestrade watches as Sherlock paced over to the first body, “And you’re not?”

“Notorious, definitely,” he says with a slight smile. “You could even make an argument for infamous but in terms of wealth, I simply cannot compete.   A flat on Baker’s Street is a far cry from a North London property, an estate in Essex and a villa in France.   Until we have more victims to prove otherwise, I think it’s safe to say I’m not in their league.”   He pauses, fingers playing along the edge of the gurney. “How long do I have out and about, Lestrade?”

“An hour, maybe two. Mycroft is going to meet us here when he’s done and return you to Baker’s Street.”

Removing his black suit coat and rolling up his sleeves, Sherlock leans forward. “Let’s see what we can deduce from the bodies then.”

After several minutes of study, having checked for bites, injection sites and trace elements on the body, Sherlock steps away from the bodies and lets Molly Hooper get to work. Sitting behind his favourite microscope, Sherlock studies a sample of the napkin from Victim Two.

 _‘Poison,’_ he thinks to himself. _‘They were poisoned. How and with what?’_    He sits up straight on the stool, his eyes focused on what only he can see. ’ _They each suffered from arrhythmia – had for some time if the witnesses were any indication.’_  In his mind’s eye, he sees a fleeting glimpse of rat poison. ‘ _No,’_ he thinks to himself, ‘ _Strychnine is too fast, there’d be spasms and convulsions but the onset is too fast.’_ For a moment he contemplates arsenic, but he discards it as none of the victims show tell-tale signs in the fingernail beds. ‘ _Aconite would cause the saliva but none of the victims referenced tingling in the mouth, numbness or constriction of the throat. Lily of the Valley would cause intense gastrointestinal distress but would leave signs of itself as a rash.’_

“Molly, did any of them report signs of excessive vomiting?”

Without looking up from where she was performing a delicate Y cut, Molly replied, “No”

 _“_ Not honeysuckle then,” he murmurs as his mind works through his mental catalogue of toxins and their effects on the body.  

She pauses as she stares at him, “You’re thinking botanical?”

Attention wandering, he focuses on her and notices her stare.   She hasn’t stared at him like that for a very long time and he pauses for a moment to wonder why before he realizes that he’s worn that blasted shirt that she seems to love so much.   He shifts his gaze from her to the sleeve of his shirt for one moment and the colour explodes in his brain. “Digitalis!” It bursts from him like an explosion. “Molly Hooper, I could kiss you!”

“I’d pay a quid to see that,” he hears Lestrade mutter.

Rolling his eyes at Lestrade, Sherlock explains, “Your unnatural affection for this shirt, the colour, it’s the colour of foxglove.   Digitalis toxicity would account for their symptoms – nausea, diarrhea, hallucinations, erratic pulse, headaches, and convulsions.   It would almost certainly be ingested, certainly over the long term.”

Molly watches Sherlock as he gestures, barely suppressed mirth evident on her face. He is completely sure that he has the cause of death.

Lestrade sits forward. “All right, genius. How do you explain three people all dying of it at once?”

“They ingested either the drug or parts of the plant over an extended period of time. Certainly over days but possibly over weeks. If they were already taking the drug unwittingly it would take but one extra large dose would achieve these results.   The tests will reveal which it was.”

 

oOoOoOo

 

_When I learnt from the tabloids that Magnussen was dead, there was a moment where I just stood there in my stocking feet and stared. Ten, possibly fifteen, minutes ticked by before I swung around in glee – it was Christmas come early._   
  
_The delicious irony of it – the man who mocked the love of my life, who wielded the memory of that love like a headsman's axe died in the exact same manner as my sunny boy. His blood a crimson pool at the feet of Sherlock Holmes - reborn in blood; my rebirth, his blood and in that moment I knew what I needed to do._   
  
_The thought of Magnussen's blood spilling across stones of the mansion that he’d bought with anguish, tears and secrets, filled me with hope for the first time in years. My darling boy, oh, he would have plotted, planned, raged. In that moment, I cared nothing for long term goals. Plan? I did nothing of the sort, I bought a pint of dulce de leche ice-cream and ate every bite._


	3. Chapter 3

_It pains me to say it but I owe my mother a debt of gratitude for the bile that she spewed forth. At her hands I learned that even the most pitiful, the weakest, crave power over others. She taught me that people will seize any form of power they can and wield it like a hammer.   There’s no easy path in this world for the soft. The soft, the compassionate, they get trod under foot with nary a backward glance._

_I’ve been stepped on, stepped over more times than I care to admit. If I learned anything, it’s that you have a choice. You can learn from it, let it warp you or accept it and move on.   I’m done with being trod on; I’ve no taste for stepping on others.   A few minor details and then I can move on.   Wash London out of my hair and finally be free of it all._

_The Sun is positively despondent about Johanna. Say what you will about the miserable little bitch, she sold a lot of papers. The papers will try to make her into a plaster saint and that simply will not do. ‘Darling Johanna, so young, so sweet’. It’s a lie and they know it. When Scotland Yard says ’murder’, the truth will fly then. Every flaw, every filthy little secret exposed.   She took such pride in how people fawned over her, loved her – that won’t last when the tabs get done with her.   She once told me that I was unloved and forgettable – oh darlin’, who’s forgettable now?_

_Between Johanna and Andrew, the Sun’s profits will be up this quarter and I can take a certain level of pride in that. Predators, the both of them.   She fed on tears and he fed on dreams.   Heartless bastard, Andrew was – he preyed on the hopes and dreams of young women.   Used them up, cast them out. Never laid a hand on me, his tastes ran to nubile. He drank down his death at the hands of his murderer every day and never recognized her for who she was.  
_

_As for dear Freddie, it is my biggest regret that I could not watch as he writhed on the floor, a gentle smile curving my lips. How many times did he watch as I writhed on the floor, agony twisting my bones?   No more slaps on the arse from Freddie dear, no more sly smiles as he kicked me in the belly. His wife is at Fatima. I wonder about her prayers – will they be of sorrow or thanksgiving?_

oOoOoOo

 

The atmosphere at the Diogenes Club can be described as idyllic calm if you were to go simply by appearances.   If power has a scent then it’s present here; a hint of tobacco overlaying the scent of wood smoke, the essence of bergamot from countless cups of tea, the heady richness of well-tended leather chairs and the faintest whiff of lemon polish.  

Men in elegant bespoke suits move about the stately room in complete silence, their arrivals and departures noted by everyone and commented on by no one.   If anonymity and silence are currency, the Diogenes Club is a clearinghouse of wealth and privilege.     

It’s in that atmosphere of silence that the members of this Club appear to give no notice when the Steward of the Club greets a newcomer at the richly appointed entrance. No one comments when the man is led to the visitor’s room.   The door opens, closes and the reading of papers continue unabated.

They pass through the visitor’s room and the Steward leads the guest to the private little sanctuary that serves as Mycroft Holmes’ little home away from the office.   Mycroft stands near the windows, looking out over the elaborate gardens at the back of the Club.   He looks up, notes the arrival of his guest and the attentiveness of the Steward.   He smiles faintly, although the smile fails to reach his eyes and he gestures for the newcomer to sit.   “Sir Daniel, thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” Mycroft says as he extends his hand.  

In his mid-fifties, he is still a tall and imposing man with gun metal grey hair, steel eyes and a solid air that screams British military. Sir Daniel Luttrell-Wyndham, retired Brigadier formerly of the 7th Armoured Brigade, Veteran of the Balkans and Iraq, smiles and shakes Mycroft’s hand.   “And miss the opportunity to breach these hallowed halls?   It’s my pleasure, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gestures for Sir Daniel to take a seat at the luxuriously appointed table. The extravagance of a formal dining table might seem a bit much to some but it was necessary given how often he works from this space.   The space is designed to impress; the walls a combination of purest ivory and rich polished mahogany, large lavish bookshelves are showcased in the walls, elegant wooden fretwork panels filling the windows.   Mycroft waits while the Steward serves tea displaying an air of patience that he doesn’t feel as the former Brigadier informs the Steward of his lunch choice.   With lunch ordered -ham and cheese crepes for the Brigadier, an herb salad with chicken for Mycroft, they sit and begin the elaborate dance at hand.   “As I am aware you are a busy man, I will strike at the heart of the matter.   I wish to acquire your assistance in the matter of my brother.”

Sir Daniel reaches out, lifts the elegant porcelain tea cup and snorts, “Surely you jest. Of all the people you could enlist, I’m the least likely.   Your brother murdered my friend.”

Mycroft leans forward, his fingers lacing in front of him, “Ah yes, your friend.   What an interesting turn of phrase. It’s such an innocent way to describe a man who chose to extort practically anyone and everyone.” Lifting his teacup, Mycroft gazes at the Brigadier over the silver edged rim, “I wonder, what secrets did Charles Magnussen have on you?”

Sir Daniel sits rigidly; his stare gives nothing away. “Charles was a school friend, I resent any implication to the contrary.”

“Imply,” Mycroft scoffs, setting down his tea cup as the Steward stepped into the room with their meal, “I would never impugn the honour of one of Her Majesty’s loyal soldiers.”   Lifting up his fork, he spears a sliver of pear and watches the man seated across from him.

Sir Daniel stares down at the savory crepes before him for a moment before he lifts his knife and fork and proceeds to cut the crepe into what Sherlock would likely call ‘regulation sized pieces’. The method with which he cuts his meal tells Mycroft far more about Sir Daniel than the man suspects.   Sherlock might accuse Mycroft of being lazy; Mycroft prefers to think of it as economy of talent. His wit is his strength and he has devoted his time and energy to its development.   He’s made a study of human nature; every motion, every nuance tells a story and he’s learned to read them all.   As the Brigadier wolfs down his meal and takes large swallows of tea, Mycroft knows that this man will be no help to him. The Brigadier is, was, exactly what he claims. If not a friend then definitely a willing cohort and Mycroft has no need of whatever intelligence the man can offer. Mycroft’s interest here isn’t information, he’s looking for influence and there’s simply none to be had here.   Luttrell-Wyndham would gladly watch Sherlock twist, if for no other reason than spite.

The consummate politician, Mycroft eats a portion of his salad. The greens are bitter and he wrinkles his nose before shoving it away from him. When the Brigadier stares at him, he says simply, “The arugula is not to my tastes.”   Sir Daniel smirks and resumes eating his crepes certain that he, and not the salad, has disturbed Mycroft’s appetite.

As the Brigadier downs the last of his tea and reaches for the tea pot, Mycroft notices the tremor in the Brigadier’s left hand.   For a moment, he is perplexed.  Mycroft Holmes has always prided himself on being thorough. His preparation for this meeting had required some light reading and Sir Daniel’s dossier made no reference of a malady or palsy.   Mycroft watches in horror as the tremor worsens, a sweat breaks out over the Brigadier’s face and Mycroft reaches into the pocket of his suit coat and extracts his mobile, punching a button.

The Brigadier begins to writhe in his seat as Mycroft’s call connects and he hears her soft voice, ‘’Yes?”

Red hot pain blazes in his chest, a searing fist that tightens as he gasps, “Anthea.”  The pain steals away his strength as he whispers, “Help.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more to the poisonings than appears at first glance.

On a good day, Anthea is tolerant of the archaic rules that govern the day to day running of the Diogenes Club. There is a certain type of dinosaur that lingers in the depths of the British Government and, like Mycroft; she understands that these fossils need careful tending.   She understands it but that doesn’t mean she approves of it. She follows the rules because as Mycroft so often says ‘ _appearances must be maintained_.’

Anthea is well aware of the blatant misogyny of those who hide behind the walls of the club. She doesn’t care a whit about the men who think her little better than a glorified typist and tea chaser. Certainly they underestimate her, that’s the point of the façade – pretty dresses, dimples and heels. They have no idea that she knows sixteen ways to disarticulate their limbs and that’s fine with her.   It’ll be a bigger surprise when she finally has to do it.   She does the job as required; she’s saved England before, she’ll likely have to do it again. What does it matter if this time she’s in a pencil skirt and high heels instead of fatigues?

She sits off to the side in the staff lunch room, scrolling through the mass of correspondence that seems to stream into her mobile.   Over the course of her time working for Mycroft Holmes, she’s spent countless hours in this room.   Enough time spent, in fact, for the Steward to install a little mahogany secretary off to the side where she can work without the distractions of the staff. When her mobile chirps, she answers the phone within one ring. The ring tone is distinct, the Imperial March to be exact. She thinks he might be amused by it if he ever found out.   She rarely hears it, as he never calls; like his magpie brother, he prefers to text. Like her employer, the tune is impossible to ignore.

Before he finishes his whispered call for help, she is running.   Her passage through the halls of the Diogenes Club will become the stuff of Club legends. New staff members will be pulled aside and told in reverent tones. Old men will caution new supplicants that whilst women do not roam the halls, Fury herself frequently does and woe betide to any man foolish enough to step in her path. Some women break plates; Fury breaks bone.

She discards her shoes in her drive towards the man she’s tied her fate to, cursing all the while that the staff section is so far from his sanctuary.   One of the uniformed men, who serve partly as wait staff and partly as security, steps in front of her and reaches for her.   Her training takes over; her hand lashes out and as it connects with his throat, she hurdles over his collapsing form as he falls gasping. She spares no thought to the state of his health. The blow was calculated to disable rather than kill. She yells for the staff to call 999 as she passes them, their bodies pressed against the walls as they desperately try to get clear of her path. It takes her less than two minutes to make the passage from the staff lunch room to Mycroft’s office but it seems like an eternity.

Her hands tear at the door, ripping it open and she rushes to Mycroft’s side as she surveys the room.   She tosses her beloved mobile at the Steward who has been running hard at her heels. How she didn’t lose the mobile she’ll never know. As the staff spill into the room behind her, Anthea surveys the room as she barks orders.  “Call Lestrade. _Now_!”  

Hyper-focused, she notes the spasms that rock through Brigadier Luttrell-Wyndham’s body but she doesn’t care about him. She suspects that Sir Daniel has succumbed to the same thing as the three bodies in the morgue.  A significant portion of her work is arranging things to Mycroft’s liking and that frequently involves Sherlock.   Certainly more so since the Fall.   She knows the basics of that case, having arranged for Sherlock’s temporary release at Lestrade’s behest. Her eyes flicker over the Brigadier and she makes a judgment call and focuses on her employer. Her gaze locks on the slumped form of Mycroft Holmes in his chair. At Mycroft’s side in a heartbeat, she tears the tie from his throat as she feels for his pulse. It’s faint but erratic.   Spilling Mycroft from his chair, she is all too aware that he will likely be annoyed by the indignity of the action, that his staff would see him in this state. None of that matters to her as Anthea strips his suit coat from his shoulders, folds it to form a pillow, and makes certain that his head rests on it.  

“ _Anthea?_ ” She hears Lestrade’s voice and is thankful that Mycroft is obsessed with competency when it comes to hiring minions. The Steward, anticipating her needs, has set the mobile on the floor near her knee and has it set to speaker.

“Lestrade, get to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft is down, bring Sherlock, and hurry,” she growls, as she turns to glare at the staff.  “Do not touch anything, no, not even him! Remove nothing from this room.”

There’s a pause, the echoing sound of footsteps and she hears Sherlock say, “ _Talk to me, Anthea, what do you see?_ ”

Fingers pressed into the pulse point on Mycroft’s throat as she scans the room, her gaze blistering everyone around her.   “Mycroft was having a meeting with Brigadier Luttrell-Wyndham.   It appears they’ve been poisoned. The Brigadier was convulsing when we entered the room but they’ve stopped now, I suspect he’s dead. They’ve both been moved, sorry for that.   Mycroft’s pulse is shallow, I’m monitoring.   It appears that they were having a meal, I can’t tell what the Brigadier had but Mycroft’s salad was pushed away unfinished.”

The Steward leans forward and says, “The Brigadier had ham and cheddar crepes. I served them Earl Grey tea.”  

Anthea turns her attention to the room where staff mill behind her. “Take every bite of food and beverage away from the patrons. I don’t care how you do it. Take it and get it to the kitchen – bag and label all of it.” The heat of her gaze sweeps over to the Steward. “Lock down the kitchen, staff in their lunch room and patrons in the common room. Steward, call the office for additional security. I want everyone in black suit coats. No one is to leave until Lestrade gets here and clears them.”

“ _Prudent,_ ” she hears Sherlock agree. _“Anthea, we suspect that we’re dealing with digitalis poisonings. Foxglove, it’s possibly plant derivatives or medication in a liquid format.   It’s generally not immediately deadly unless given extreme or continuous dosage.   Let the A &E take him, go with him, we’ll be there shortly.   Tell the paramedics; they should have activated charcoal with them.   That should help neutralize the digitalis; continue to monitor him until they arrive._” He pauses; for a moment she thinks the call will disconnect and then she hears him say, _“Digitalis does odd things to the heart, Anthea. It can increase or decrease heart rate depending on dosage and the heart health of the individual.   If his heart should stop, allow CPR only.   Shocking the heart can cause the dysrhythmia to worsen.”_

“Anything else?” she asks as she struggles to maintain her calm.

“ _Yes, as I doubt the A &E are familiar with digitalis. Allow them to administer oxygen and IV fluids, advise them that they may have to deal with electrolyte issues. When he’s situated at the hospital, insist on security that you personally can vouch for_.”   He pauses then, and she can almost hear him count to three. _“I know it’s tempting to stay and oversee things at the Club, but you need to stay with him, Anthea._ ” She starts to speak but he interrupts her. “ _I understand the need.   We need to play to our strengths, you and I.   My strengths lie in finding who did this and I don’t need to tell you yours. Stay with him_ …” and then he says the one word that removes all choice, “ _please._ ”

Focusing on Mycroft, she’s keeping careful watch on his pulse when she feels a tentative touch on the index finger of the hand she’s braced herself with on the floor.   Glancing over, she notices that Mycroft’s hand has moved slightly to touch her fingers and she looks over to him. His eyes are squeezed shut; that he is in considerable pain is evident in his face, the faintest of tears glisten in the corner of his eyes. “Of course.”

 

oOoOoOo

 

_There is no retreat now; choices have led to actions, actions will have consequences. I knew that when I set myself on this path but there’s a difference between knowing and doing. I am, as are they, wholly committed to this enterprise.   That does not mean that I don’t have moments where fear overtakes me; I am afraid, afraid that they will stop what needs doing, afraid that the work will remain incomplete._

_The idea of failing is unbearable. I cannot falter. I must not waver.   I must be fierce, ruthless, and cunning._

_Sun Tsu said, “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”   I will be a tempest the likes of which they have never seen._

oOoOoOoOo

 

‘ _This is creepy,_ ’ Lestrade thinks to himself as he follows Sherlock through the abandoned hallways of the Diogenes Club.   He’s been here before and it’s always quiet, but it’s the deliberate hush of a library, not the quiet of a tomb.   Shaking himself mentally, he picks up his stride in an effort to keep up with Sherlock.

Lestrade had expected a certain level of harassment from the security guards posted immediately outside the club and certainly from the ones inside but that turned out to be unfounded.   The black suited men and women that maintained Mycroft’s security merely glanced at him. They focused on Sherlock for one moment and then ushered them through. There was something almost reverent in the way they treated Sherlock, as if he had passed some unknown test, and Lestrade found himself wondering once again exactly what Sherlock had done during the Fall.

Lestrade falls into step behind Sherlock, watching his friend carefully as they make their way down the corridors of the Club. Sherlock’s body is rigid as he strides down the halls, his pace punishing as the great Belstaff coat spreads out behind him like the wings of some bird of prey.   He stops abruptly in front of the elegantly carved wooden door of Mycroft’s office, Lestrade sees him take a quick gulp of breath as if steeling himself.   His fingers almost caress the heavy wooden doors before he takes one last deep breath, pushes the door open, and steps into the room.

The Steward stands in the far corner of the room, nearest to Mycroft’s desk, staring out the window.   When he sees them, he straightens the coat of his suit and approaches tentatively.   “I did everything she asked,” he explains. “The room is exactly as it was when she left.” His gloved hands tug the edge of his coat, “I have no idea how this happened under my watch.”

Lestrade steps forward and sets his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’ll get whoever did this.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, his fingers trace the edge of the table as he studies the dinnerware, “we will.”   Glancing at the Steward, he asks, “A colleague of mine, Dr. John Watson, is on his way.   Would you be so kind as to meet him and bring him here, Mr. Connell?” If Lestrade is surprised that Sherlock not only knows the man but remembers his name, he gives no sign of it.

“Of course.”

Focusing on the table, Sherlock waits until the older man leaves the room before he says, “You’re going to need to be very thorough with the staff.   This isn’t going to be a new hire and no, I don’t suspect him.” He extracts a set of gloves from his coat pocket as he bends over to study the utensils on the Brigadier’s plate.

“You think it’s a staff member,” Lestrade says. “I’ll look for overlaps.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock glances up at the Detective Inspector. “Waste of time.”   The Brigadier’s plate is a smear of food waste; Sherlock sniffs at the plate but there is no scent that is ‘off’.   He turns his attention to Mycroft’s plate and the salad that sits wilting in vinaigrette.   He pauses, notes that Lestrade is watching him carefully and asks, “What?”

“Why not look for overlaps?”

Sherlock reaches into his pocket, extracts a smooth steel implement with a pointed end and proceeds to poke through the remainder of Mycroft salad. “It’s rather obvious, Lestrade.   Each of them has ingested this poison yet each environment is radically dissimilar from the others. The female victim consumed a beverage from a specialty beverage shop; the employees of those types of shops tend towards starving students.” His eyes sweep the room in which they stand, “Consider the restaurant where the Viscount died, it has two Michelin stars. It’s the crème de la crème of dining here in London, there’s no way they’d hire just anyone. By all accounts, that meal was rather clandestine – done as a personal favour.   A starving student has no chance at a restaurant like that, wouldn’t fit in with the custom.   Much like here, the people who work here are of a particular sort and they don’t work at tea shops.”

Lestrade runs his hands through his short steel-grey hair as John Watson steps into the room. “So we have the same weapon but different killers?”

Picking through the greens, the limp and sodden sliver of a pink flower petal emerged from the pile and another appears to be adhered to a piece of grilled chicken.   Sherlock straightens. “It would appear so. We need them to get the pans from the kitchen as well. It was in Mycroft’s salad, we need to confirm if it was in the Brigadier’s crepes.”

Watching his friend carefully, John asks, “What next?”

“I’ve got staff to interview,” Lestrade states as Sherlock adjusts his coat and removes his gloves.  

“Tedious and likely pointless,” Sherlock counters. “I have the suspicion that will find at least one staff member missing.   Likewise when we check at the tea shop and restaurant. What will be telling is what we find at Andrew Warren’s residence.”

Clearly puzzled, John asks, “Why’s that?”

The smile that Sherlock gives them is cold and brittle, “We know who his staff is; he had an assistant and his cook. What we find there might answer the real question.”

“Which is?”

“Mycroft survived, why?   Each person previous consumed the means of their destruction without fail but Mycroft, who has never been known to shun a meal, didn’t. He pushed this one away. Why? What made that difference? Answer that and we may learn the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to HeayPuckett for her input and for Miz-Joely who puts up with my personal punctuation hell and hair pulling.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of the last few years, John Watson has come to pride himself in the knowledge that he understands Sherlock Holmes as well as anyone ever has. With the possible exception of Mycroft, he can generally predict the way the winds of hurricane Sherlock will blow on any given day but today is not one of them.  
  
This Sherlock he doesn’t understand. Sherlock is succinct as he suggests a course of action for Lestrade to take, suggesting that Donovan be the officer to search for the poisoner at the tea shop and that Anderson should be sent to the restaurant. There are no snide comments, no deflections, absolutely no snappy repartee as one might expect. Normally Lestrade will balk, or at least appear to, at Sherlock’s suggestions but not this time. He nods and leaves the room as he moves off to give his subordinates their instructions.   
  
John watches as Sherlock turns, studies the room one last time and his fingers trail across the wood of the dining table. For a moment, Sherlock’s body loses its rigid posture, his shoulders slump, his neck droops slightly and his eyes close for the fraction of a second as he takes a single deep breath. As quickly as he relaxes, his body is tense again and he is moving for the door.   
  
Striding down the halls of the Diogenes Club, he maintains a pace that John cannot match and the shorter man is thankful when he sees Sherlock stop to speak to one of the countless black clad government men that have flooded the Club. What he says, John has no idea, he is too far away and Sherlock has spoken too softly for the words to carry. Whatever he says, the agent nods and Sherlock is sprinting away again.  
  
John catches up with him outside the club where Sherlock has stopped and is standing at the edge of the walkway. He is surprised when a polished black sedan pulls up to where they wait and the driver exits the car. The driver nods to Sherlock and hands him the keys to the car. Sherlock slides smoothly into the driver seat and John has scarcely enough time to do up his belt when the sedan is pulling into traffic. They sit in companionable silence for several moments before John looks out the windscreen and asks, “Are we not going to the hospital first?” Sherlock glances over at him from the corner of his eyes and then returns his attention to the traffic in front of them. John looks at his friend, incredulous. “Honestly, Sherlock, you’re not going to go and see how your brother is?”  
  
Mercurial blue eyes flick over at him, roll heavenward and he says simply, “No.” John twists himself in his seat, his body turned towards that of his friend and he stares in slack-jawed amazement. He’s accused him of being an automaton in the past, had seen evidence of it in the Club but this, this lack of concern surprises him. He opens his mouth to chastise his friend but is interrupted. “Do not presume, John. You would be in error. Going to the hospital at this point serves no purpose.”  
  
“No purpose!” John blurts out. “Your brother could be dying! You bloody…”  
  
He is interrupted by Sherlock’s dry baritone, “As usual, you fail to observe.” He tilts his head slightly the left, his gaze alternating between his friend and traffic, “You assume that I am not invested in Mycroft’s health, that the mystery consumes me. You fail to take a few things into consideration.”

Gritting his teeth, John explodes, “Then tell me what I missed, Sherlock, because I don’t see it!”  
  
With a sigh, Sherlock begins to explain, “I’m being practical, John. The best London hospitals rarely allow more than two or three family members into a room at any given time. No force on earth would prevent Mummy from being there.” He pauses for a moment, studying the flow of traffic before continuing, “Simply put, the three most dangerous women in England are currently with Mycroft because nothing will keep Sherrin or Anthea from his side. If they need me, they will let me know.” He pauses again, clears his throat and says softly, “Focused as you are on the fact that Mycroft was poisoned, it may have escaped you that Mycroft was, in fact, poisoned in the Diogenes Club.” He lets John digest that reminder for a moment before continuing. “The Diogenes Club which he co-founded, the club where he personally interviewed and vetted each person who works there. In theory, it’s one of the safest places in London, a place where he couldn’t be safer and yet this poisoner got to him, John. If he or she got to Mycroft, where else can they go? Who is safe, John?”  
  
“Just a moment or two, Sherlock,” John admonishes but Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“No, and he would not thank me for being there, John.” He pauses, “You may think it callous but trust me when I say that the Holmes family wants this poisoner dealt with far more than they want me at the hospital.”

John studies Sherlock carefully, notes the rigid line of his shoulder, the stiffness in his body and sighs, “He could die, Sherlock.”

"Could," Sherlock agrees. "He could die, though I think it highly unlikely at this point without further action from our poisoner. It can’t be chance that each of our victims consumed their death and yet Mycroft failed to do so."

Frowning, John twists in his seat to stare at his friend, “You think the poisoner meant him to live.”

Sherlock nods, his long fingers gripping the wheel tightly, “Yes, exactly.” Silence reigns in the sedan for several moments before Sherlock says, “I have to wonder, what purpose would poisoning Mycroft serve?”

"Your brother is not without enemies, Sherlock."

A faint smile flits across the detective’s features as he nods. “Of that, I am keenly aware. Really though, can you honestly see an enemy invest that much effort in placing someone in Mycroft’s sanctuary and then miss? No, that would be foolhardy. Mycroft’s survival leads me to two possibilities.   Either he was collateral damage or he was poisoned for a purpose. I think delay.”

There is a pause as John watches Sherlock for a moment. “Delay for what?”

"Not for what, John, for whom?" Again, he sees Sherlock give a quick smile, "For me, John. I believe that Mycroft’s poisoning serves no other purpose than to distract me, keep me from finding the link between the victims. Oh, the Brigadier was a valid target, of that I’m certain but Mycroft was something else entirely."

"There are easier ways to distract you," John suggests.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Infinitely safer ones in the long run as well. So we must ask ourselves, what purpose in delay?"

oOoOoOo

_In this modern age, we are so unprepared when death visits us. We isolate ourselves from it, hide away from it, distance ourselves from the reality of it until we have no choice but to face it. When my darling left this world, I was ill-prepared. I was lost, bereft; and so, I was easy prey for the sharks that circled._

_You might choose to look at those years spent under their thumb as a sentence but they were an education. I did as I was told, abased myself as necessary and I waited. One day, a little over a year ago now, he took me with him to this swank lord’s place. I waited in a library whilst he extorted who knows what from the man. There on the table beside me was a book, **The Art of War** and having nothing better to do, I sat and read. Here was a man who understood people and in his words, I found my purpose again._

_"Engage people with what they expect; it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections. It settles them into predictable patterns of response, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment — that which they cannot anticipate."_

_My moment is almost here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lengthy wait. This chapter is short but the following ones won't be. Thanks for your patience.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two short notes. First, this took a lot longer to write than I'd hoped - no excuses, just a heartfelt apology. I'll try to update faster. Second, much love to my betas who help me take my babbles from incoherent to polished. I couldn't do this without you.

The house is the perfect match for the facade that Andrew Warren presented to the world, or so thinks Sherlock as he looks up the driveway leading up to a large brick neo-Tudor nightmare.  A two metre high brick wall encircles the property with its ornate wrought-iron gate blocking the path up the grey cobblestone driveway.  The house is built of the same brick as the wall; it's a massive, sprawling monstrosity rendered in blood red brick and glass.  It contains the entire hallmark of architectural details of a Tudor manor and none of the aesthetic values.  At the very least, it could be described as gaudy but is likely more accurately described as expensive but tasteless.

Large panels of multi-paned mirrored glass flank a large oak door with a curved top.  It was accented with just the right amount of ivy, carefully pruned as to highlight the almost round doorway without obscuring it.  Exiting the sedan, Sherlock steps out in front of the door, his gaze taking in the carefully maintained hedges, the pruned trees and shrubs, noting that there's not a single flower or spot of colour anywhere in the garden.  Sherlock pauses for a moment, straightens his coat as he steps up to the door and knocks.

The woman who answers the door is a matronly woman; in her mid-sixties, short, very slight with steel grey hair and hazel eyes.  She wears what appears to be a uniform of sorts; dove grey dress, beige tights, white shoes and white apron.  She studies Sherlock for a moment, her eyes flicking over John before returning to the detective. "Mister 'Olmes, yes?"

Sherlock rocks slightly on the back of his heels as he nods. “Yes. Mrs. Rothwell, I presume?”

She bobs her head a bit, gesturing for them to follow her into the house. “Aye, love. Bit surprised when you called, I was.  The police told us that Andy’s heart went, poor lad.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees as he pushes John forward, “we suspect that’s the case.  Unfortunately, we’ve had a few other notables pass recently and so we’ve been asked to look about and see if it’s not an environmental concern.  That’s why Dr. Watson,” Sherlock smiles slightly, “is with me.  Would we be able to look at his room and his office?”

The matronly woman nods, shuffling ahead of them. “This way.”   

The house is immaculate; oak floors gleam, wood furniture glows with polish, countless mirrors and windows sparkle.   “You keep a meticulous house, Mrs. Rothwell,” Sherlock murmurs as they walk up the wide wooden staircase leading up to the second storey, his long fingers lightly touching the elegantly carved handrails.  “So few truly appreciate craftsmanship these days or take proper care of such exquisite woodwork.  Lemon oil?”

Walking ahead of them, she never breaks her shuffling stride forward. “Lemon oil on the rails and banisters, paste wax on the stairs and floors.   Need to use a proper paste wax to get the floors truly clean.”  Her step falters a half beat as her hand drifts down to hover over the carved oak before she straightens and continues up the stairs.  She leads them to a set of ornate French doors, stopping abruptly with her hand over the elaborate handles on the doors.

“Were you in his employ long, Mrs. Rothwell?” Watson asks, watching the obvious distress play across the older woman’s face.

She nods, her grey hair bobbing as she stares at the door. “Worked for his ma, bless her.  I worked for her until she retired.  By then Andy was making his mark and needed someone he could trust so I came to work for him, been ever since.” 

She stands before the doors, unable to move forward, seemingly unable to move at all.   Watson isn’t sure if he’s moved by practicality or if it’s a sign that the events of the last three years have made a mark on Sherlock when the detective sets his hands on the housekeeper’s shoulders and gently moves her from the door.  “It would be best,” he begins gently, “for you and for us, if you go and make yourself a cup of tea whilst we look at the office.  There’s no need for you to go in there again.”

She nods once, takes a ragged breath and murmurs, “Going to have to go in there, eventually.  That room needs cleaning.”

Sherlock studies the woman for a moment, one eyebrow disappearing into his hairline as he asks, “Do I understand correctly that the room has yet to be cleaned?”

Again, a nod.  “Emmy says it won’t get easier and to clean it, but I can’t.   I just see...”  Her voice fades off, her shoulders slumping.

Once again, Sherlock surprises Watson. “It's best that you’ve left the room untouched, Mrs. Rothwell.  You’ve done well, that room might just provide the information we need.  Off you go now, have a cuppa and we’ll be down as soon as we’re done.”  

They watch as the older woman quietly puts herself back together, straightens and slips away down the staircase as she retreats to the sanctuary of her kitchen.  “Diplomacy, Sherlock?” John murmurs as Sherlock turns his attention back to the door.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock’s gaze flicks over his friend and then back to the door. “Expediency, my dear Watson.”  Sherlock pushes the ornate doors open and steps into the room.  

They both pause for a moment, studying the room, and John Watson knows that his viewpoint is likely radically different than his friend’s.   He’s not certain what he’d expected but the room that reveals itself was certainly not it.   He’s certain that Sherlock is drawn to the disaster area that is Andrew Warren’s desk but John Watson is stuck on the décor.   If not for the chaos at the desk, he would have guessed that the housekeeper has shown them to the wrong room because it defies everything he knows about the icon that was Andrew Warren.

Where the public perception of Andrew Warren is one of bespoke suits, black trousers, blue silk shirts and silver, this room is as far from that reality as possible.   The walls of the office and the clearly visible bedroom are a bright daffodil while the carpet and wooden furniture are a soft cream colour.   The two loveseats in the office and the one at the foot of the bed are the exact shade of cream as the carpet.  It’s the carnation pink that captures John’s attention; the ornate window treatments, the fancy canopy over the bed, the fancy embroidered duvet over the ornate bed.   His gaze sweeps over the room and on to Sherlock who in typical fashion has moved directly to the desk.  “Not what I expected. It's certainly not my cup of tea,” John says to break the silence.

Sherlock’s gaze lifts to meet John’s, a hint of a smile flitting across his face before it abruptly disappears.  “Not my cup of tea,” he murmurs as he returns his attention to the desk as he abruptly straightens and slips on his leather gloves, reaching over to pick up the discarded mug on the desk as he mutters to himself, ” _Ooooh._   Simpleton.”

John blinks. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock pulls an evidence bag from the inner pocket of his Belstaff coat and slips the mug into the bag.  “Not my cup of tea, John!”  At the blank look, he lets out an explosive breath. “They bloody well told us how they were killing them from the first, John.  It’s so bloody English that we looked directly at it and never saw it, so simple and so brilliant.   They all had tea.”   Sherlock paced about the room, his brain whirling as he considered and discarded connections.

John frowned. “So that wasn’t foxglove you found in Mycroft’s salad.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen as he paced, one hand raking through his dark curls. “Stupid, stupid,  _stupid!_ ”  The bag with the cup disappears into the depths of one of the pockets in his Belstaff and he sweeps from the room and seemingly flows down the stairs.  John rushes to keep up and comes skidding to a halt behind him as Sherlock demands, “Where is his tea, Mrs. Rothwell?”

The housekeeper looks up from where she’s kneeling, scrubbing at some non-existent patch of dirt on an immaculate tile floor. “Tea?”

Impatiently, he barks, “The tea that Andrew Warren drank daily, where is his tea, Mrs. Rothwell?”

She shrugs as she straightens up, staring at Sherlock as if he’s half mad. “Not sure, Mr. ‘Olmes.  In his office, likely. His assistant, Emmy Stanford, brought that to him with the daily tapes.”

A great gust of breath escapes him. “And would you know where I can find Emmy?” 

He is certain in that moment that the assistant is long gone and is resigned to another search when she says, “Emmy?  Why she’s upstairs, two doors down from Andy.  She’s been devastated since she found him, poor girl has been sick ever since.  She’s been doing the best she can to finish up Andy’s current business load while the court decides who gets what.   Poor girl had nowhere else to go so she’s still here.”

Quirking his head slightly, he nods graciously, spins on his heel and sweeps past John to rush up the stairs.  For what is likely the hundredth time, John curses Sherlock's long legged fast pace as he struggles to catch up with the detective as he strides down the hallway and opens the door to the assistant's room.

The room is decorated in the same colour palette as the other bedroom, though far less grand in scope, but that’s not what captures Sherlock’s attention as John Watson pushes past him to the wan figure shivering in the bed despite the fire that smolders in the tiny fireplace.   “Call 999, Sherlock, her heart rate is erratic.”

The woman in the bed is slight, fragile, and if not for the grey tint to her skin, would have a perfect porcelain complexion to go with the white blonde of her hair and eyes that are fiery emerald.

Pulling his mobile from his pocket, Sherlock does as John asks if only to prevent any recriminations.  He is succinct in his directions to the operator, suggesting that the ambulance have activated charcoal even though he knows that the woman in the bed is beyond help.   “You’re wasting your time, John,” he says quietly, knowing full well that his friend will rail at him.  To forestall that, he continues, “She’s dying by her own hand, John, she took the poison by choice.  Didn’t you, Ms. Stanton?” 

Confusion is writ large on John’s face as he turns and stares at his friend. "The housekeeper said Stanford, Sherlock. 

Sherlock smirks, his focus laser-like on the woman in the bed. “Emmy Stanford is a lie, John, a construct designed to obscure the truth.  John Watson, meet Ms. Emily Stanton – former chanteuse and if I do recall correctly, one of Andrew Warren’s protégés.”

The woman in the bed gives a faint smile, tremors racking her petite body. “Sherlock Holmes himself,” she whispers, “always dashing.  I’m touched that you remember me.”

Posture rigid, he looks down at the dying woman and says simply, “I remember all my cases, even the easy ones.”  At John’s blank look, he shrugs inelegantly as his eyes roll slightly. “A simple theft case, Ms. Stanton suspected that someone on her staff was stealing and reselling her dresses – a small fortune worth of clothing.  I apprehended the thief, her assistant, and the case was solved.”

“Happier times,” she states, shivering slightly.

He inclines his head slightly, conceding her point. “From Andrew Warren’s lover to assistant, quite brazen.   I knew that you had some difficulties, financial.  Did you ask him for help?”

“Help?!” she spits out.  “He was the reason for my difficulties, the prick stole my music, my money and my home.”

Glancing around the room, Sherlock sighs, “Of course, that’s why you stayed.   It definitely explains the house.  Bad taste in décor but appalling taste in men.”

“Sherlock!”  John barks out.

Sherlock gaze flits over to his friend, then back to the woman in the bed. “How simple, he makes off with some of your money and you take his life.”

She laughs then, the tremors that torture her body becoming more pronounced. “They were right, you don’t see it.  How lovely."   She smiles and in that moment, her expression is almost beatific. "This might work after all.”  She shivers then, twisting in the thick blankets, and her smile turns brittle.  “He didn’t steal some of my money, he took all of it and more.  My music, my soul, my faith, Mr. Holmes. He took all of it, laid waste to it and moved on.   I’m merely one more in a chain of women that he used, broke and discarded – so below consideration that he didn’t even recognize me.  He took our dreams, Mr. Holmes.”

“And so you took his life, I should think that would level the scales somewhat,” Sherlock counters.

“It’s not enough but it will have to do.”  A massive spasm slams through her and Sherlock watches as John tries to calm the thrashing woman.  When the spasm eases, she takes a deep breath and says, “You'll find no proof, it’s all up in smoke.”  As another tremor tears through her body, Sherlock turns to stare at the fire in horror.   

As John Watson struggles to keep the woman alive, Sherlock grabs the pot of tea that rests on the bedside table and tosses in on the flames.  The fire hisses and dies, Sherlock slips to his knees to study the content of the fire - assorted papers, charred and sodden, beyond redemption.

 

_oOoOoOoOo_

 

_The problem with resolve is so few people truly have it.  Strength of conviction is easy to espouse when you're gathered in a group but it's something else entirely when you're alone in the dark._

_This will test their resolve and mine - there is a difference between an act of passion and one of resolve.  My sisters are discovering that now.  They found the fire for the first, may they find courage for the second._


	7. Author's Note

This work is temporarily on hiatus. My apologies, a recent bout of real life, bad health and writer's block have me in a bind. I'm writing again but want to build up stock in chapters before I start posting again so you get reliable updates.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks go to HeayPuckett and MizJoely who provide invaluable input. HP is my chief cheerleader and encourages me to let the plot bunnies go. I owe MizJoely for helping me wrangle the proper 'villain' for this story - here's hoping it proves to be as good as it sounded in my head. Thank you so much, ladies.


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